A Dilettante Falls Victim To His Own Subjective Opinions Poem by Ted Sheridan

With his left hand
he slowly raises
his finely cut crystal glass
filled with a most expensive bourbon
to his dry and parted lips
as if to savor
more the finality
of the moment
than the distinct and full bouquet
of the distiller's
single barrel creation.
He gingerly sips his last drink
being very cautious
not to bruise the ice
while somewhere
in the blue hills of Kentucky
a bung is being popped
from yet another giant barrel.
When-
with the index finger
of his right hand
he releases the gun's trigger
of any guilt it may feel
for the obvious coldness
of its steel heart.
Life may not always be good
but you can't blame it on the bourbon